Mine
by Cati-dono
Summary: alternate story of Dean in Hell... unrelated to any of my others. Alistair decides that he needs to take special measures with this soul, if he is going to get him to break.


**Author's Note:** GUYS I AM SO SORRY. I haven't updated anything in over a month, so this is sort-of my apology one-shot. it's kind of bad and it may have a second chapter, but I just had to get something to you all. Different scenario than any of my other hell!fics, so just keep that in mind if/when they contradict each other.

...and I totally just realized I've been spelling Alistair's (Alastair's?) name "wrong" for like, years. Oh well. I DO WHAT I WANT.

Love you all!

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"What are you doing to me?" Dean gasped out. The demon had been torturing him for what felt like lifetimes, but nothing else had ever quite compared to this. Alistair's eyes were half-closed as he brought the red-hot metal to his mouth, savoring the taste of Dean's singed flesh, and the look on his face was nearly orgasmic. The sight was revolting and terrifying all at once, but Dean was more concerned about the intricate pattern of burns now stretching across his collarbones. They hurt, but there was something deeper to it, something that felt fundamentally wrong. He began to struggle weakly against his bonds for the first time in a long time, earning him a cautionary slap on the cheek from his torturer.

"Settle down, Dean, there's nowhere to go." Alistair placed a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder and lowered the point of the spike to where he had left off. He raised his voice slightly to be heard above the hiss of Dean's skin melting. "It's just that you are taking so deliciously long to break, and while I would love to take the scenic path towards the end of Yours and the beginning of Mine, I am afraid we just don't have the time. So think of this as a shortcut Dean-o, a choke-collar on a dog that's been misbehaving. I may not be able to force you to do anything you don't want to, but there are other tactics I can try."

Tiny flames licked around the shaft of the instrument as Dean's skin combusted under the intense heat. The hunter moaned involuntarily as Alistair finished a second line of characters and started in on a third. An icy chill was starting to spread from the markings, settling in Dean's heart and limbs, weighing him down. The bite of metal into his skin was covered over with curling tendrils of cold that spread up his neck, freezing his head in place. The cold reached his mind, and Dean could feel it pulling at his memories. sweeping over them, burying them. His moan turned into a terrified whimper.

He owned a black Chevy Impala, but he wasn't sure what the year was.

Alistair's gruesome pen was crossing the hollow of his throat now, still biting and tugging.

He was sitting on the rug in the living room eating oreos with Sam, but Dean realized that he couldn't recall the name of the grumpy old hunter who they were staying with.

The searing pain from the needle crossed to his left collarbone.

Dean had a little brother who was alive because Dean was in Hell, and that was good. Dean couldn't remember his name.

Alistair drew a tight curve from the end of the last line of text up and across Dean's throat, making him retch. As he connected the freshest scar to the first, the demon spoke a single word in Enochian, and the pattern blazed with a dull orange glow for an instant. Dean screamed louder than he ever had before, loud enough to make Alistair take a step back, loud enough to make a few of the more sensitive psychics on the earth above shiver without cause. The cry went on for an inhumanly long time, a cry of the soul and not the physical body. When Dean finally stopped, head dropping to his chest in exhaustion, Alistair leaned closer to him again, tilting his head up with clawed fingers to make eye contact.

"So, Dean, will you join me? Will you take your place beside my blade instead of beneath it?" Alistair's voice was gentle. His hand was shaking slightly, and there were dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes that hadn't been there a moment ago. Whatever trick he had just performed, it had cost the demon greatly.

"I told you a thousand times already you bastard, no." Dean's voice was rough, his eyes only half focused. Alistair smiled, a razor thin line of teeth appearing.

"But why not, Dean-o? Think hard now."

"Because." Dean's brow furrowed and he seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. "I can't, it's wrong. He would be disappointed."

"Who?" Alistair's wolfish grin was slowly widening, and he let go of Dean's chin and stood back, to admire his handiwork.

"I- I don't- I can't remember. Why can't I remember?" Dean's eyes widened, and he gave a half-hearted tug against his bindings, fixing Alistair with a horrified gaze. "Why can't I remember, Alistair? What did you do to me?" The demon's only response was a delighted chuckle. On Dean's chest, the carved letters stood out, disturbingly clean and fresh against the rest of his sooty, bloody skin.

"Goodbye, Dean. I could use a little bit of a break, couldn't you? Just think over what I said- why are you resisting me so very hard?" Alistair turned and walked away, ignoring the pleas and demands that he stop, come back, explain himself. It had been a calculated risk, but in the end it had paid off.

On the rack, Dean hung his head, furiously cudgeling his brain for knowledge. There was a reason he had said no to Alistair for almost thirty years, someone who loved Dean, someone Dean had gone to Hell to save, but Dean couldn't remember who. His eyes stung, but the fierce heat dried Dean's tears before they were more than a glimmer of moisture in his eye.

Fighting was hard, both master and victim reflected, if there was no cause to fight for.


End file.
